


For Glad and Golden Hours Come Swiftly On The Wing

by splash_the_cat



Category: Jupiter Ascending (2015)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Holidays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 03:54:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5524436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/splash_the_cat/pseuds/splash_the_cat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their first Christmas Eve tradition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Glad and Golden Hours Come Swiftly On The Wing

**Author's Note:**

> Seasons greetings, JA fandom! I blame all the frosting I consumed while decorating cookies with my kid for the sickeningly sweet fluff, and that I wrote this in like the last two hours for any massive typos or tense issues.

_And ye, beneath life's crushing load,_  
Whose forms are bending low,  
Who toil along the climbing way  
With painful steps and slow,  
Look now! for glad and golden hours  
come swiftly on the wing.  
O rest beside the weary road,  
And hear the angels sing!  
-It Came Upon A Midnight Clear 

 

In no hurry, Caine's hand grasped tightly in hers, Jupiter ebbs and bobs with the molasses flow of the crowd out of the Adler Planetarium and into the clear, unseasonably warm night. She's wearing the beautiful braided wire cuff bracelet Caine gave her that morning, which neatly hides her Entitlement mark, and he's wearing the lumpy hat she furtively, painstakingly crocheted for him over the last month, after three false starts at knitting ended with broken needles and tangled yarn thrown across the basement and a raised brow from her mother, who asked, "All this for this boy, Jupiter? And you haven't yet brought him home?"

Which is why Caine is coming home with her tomorrow for Christmas, much to her trepidation and his unexpected delight. "I think I can handle it," he'd said that morning, warm and wry, when she'd extended the invitation and twenty minutes of detailed warnings of the chaos he'd be thrown into. There'd be food, he reminded her, so he'd be happy, and there'd be vodka, she reminded herself, so she'd be happy one way or another, and he'd stroked her hair and kissed her, sweetly, and kissed her again, suggestively, and Jupiter had stopped worrying about anything for a while.

So they'd exchanged their gifts still tangled in the sheets of their bed, sweat-slick and languid. "I decree this should be our first Christmas eve tradition," Jupiter said, dragging a fingertip back and forth along the lines of Caine's ribs. "Sex, then presents." Caine's stomach growled as he opened his mouth to reply, and Jupiter laughed. "Okay, and breakfast, too."

A group of carolers, accompanied by a handbell choir, stands out in the plaza at the base of the steps. Caine drifts toward them and Jupiter follows in his wake. He listens, rapt, as the bells shimmer and peal around the lovely voices of the singers, until he turns to Jupiter. "Your majesty," he says in that way that send shivers though her, that makes her stand tall and think that maybe, she really can do anything, and he bows to her, one hand held out.

Jupiter takes it, shaking her head in confusion until he raises their joined hands and twirls her, his other hand settling on her hip as he guides her back and around and - "We're dancing!" she says, delighted. Caine's cheeks color, but he whirls her without hesitation, leading her through the crowd in an intricate promenade, keeping her steady when she stumbles trying to match his graceful steps.

The crowd breaks into applause and laughter and hoots of approval when he halts and sketches her another bow, and Jupiter hides her face in her hands, hoping this doesn't end up on Youtube, before she grabs Caine's hand once again and pulls him away, clattering down to the breakwall, breathless and elated. 

The waves roll low in the mild night, breaking in a gentle, measured slosh and shush. Caine tucks her under his arm and she folds into him, pressing her nose against the soft weave of his shirt, saturated with the spicy salt-sweet smell of the little bag of candied almonds tucked into his coat pocket. After breakfast, they'd braved the Christkindlesmarkt crowds, Caine intent on selecting treats to bring to her family, then spent the day wandering the museum campus, Caine's eyes warm and pleased at her enthusiasm when she saw that the planetarium was open for the evening.

"Where did you learn how to dance?"

"Kiza," Caine says, "back before." Disquiet still lingers in his voice when he speaks of, or around, those terrible years of his life, but he does it now without hesitation, weary, but without misery. "It's easy enough. Kind of like a nicer version of fighting."

Jupiter worms a hand up under his shirt to skate her fingers across his stomach. "You're full of surprises, Caine Wise."

"I have my moments," he says, huffing as her thumb hits a ticklish spot. He fishes her hand out from under his shirt and brings her fingers to his lips. "The songs they sang," he says against her fingertips. "I liked them."

"Nino used to sing in a choir, back in Saint Petersburg. I bet if you asked nice, or get her drunk enough, she'd sing some for you." 

"Thank you," he says, and Jupiter tips her face up to search his, concerned at the sudden fervency that trembles his voice.

"For what?"

"For including me in all this." He's staring out at the water; she cups his cheek, turns his eyes back to hers. "I've never had... It's nice. It's good. To belong. Like this."

Jupiter takes a breath and closes her eyes and says, heart beating like she is leaning out over a wide, dark star-scattered chasm, "Always."

When she dares open them again he's gazing down at her like she's the sole point of light in the universe, radiant in his regard. She wants to laugh, to kiss him until they can't breathe, to drown in his heartbreaking devotion. To hold him tight, like she can press into his skin how dear he is. Love, she thinks wildly, is just like her mother said, all urges and hormones and it is _wonderful_.

Instead she holds out her hand. "Dance with me?"

He takes it, his fingers sure and strong as they twine with hers, spinning her into his arms to the hush-shush beat of the waves. "Always."


End file.
